


Hard Truths

by adenium (peccolia)



Series: Never Knew AU [4]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, there are happy moments too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peccolia/pseuds/adenium
Summary: Sammy never knew he had a twin—until a secret photo reveals all. Upon entering Hurricane, he encounters that unknown sister’s life as a strange, mismatched puzzle and won’t leave town without its solution.After losing Charlie again, John, Jessica, and Clay struggle to move forward while keeping a secret hidden deep. When a familiar stranger comes to town, they’re forced to decide if it should remain that way.The hard truth of it all is that if a secret wants to be known, it will be.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and welcome to the fic! A few things upfront: this is an AU, so some details will be changed and/or ignored concerning the three books (namely, the end of **The Fourth Closet** ), but overall it follows the aftermath of TFC and continues the story based on the idea that Charlie’s twin Sammy comes to Hurricane. I wrote a couple of ficlets before, found in this **Never Knew** collection, that have been repurposed to fit in with this full-length fic. This is an extremely indulgent fic for me, so I’ll include headcanons and expand on the characters a great deal, too. This is currently set to be part one of two full fics and I'm aiming for a biweekly update schedule.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please consider leaving a comment!

Aunt Jen’s home hadn’t changed.

From her body, left for dead in the dining room, almost hidden behind the table and chairs, save for the pool of blood that seeped out onto the tiles and dried there, dark brown and ugly, to the scattered and broken mess of belongings that had been flung about during Charlie and Elizabeth’s confrontation. A cold, stark stillness had settled upon everything, bleeding in from the doors that had never been closed, and only chilling the home more throughout the two nights that passed.

“God,” Clay muttered, transfixed by the puddle of blood, his flashlight trailing from it to the body, then quickly away. “And you said _she_ did this?”

John nodded. “The fake Charlie.”

“ _Elizabeth_ ,” Jessica hissed under her breath at his side, arms hugged tight around herself.

“Considering what she did to me, I don’t doubt it.” Clay reached for his gun on reflex, hand hovering over its holster as he moved further into the house. He paused long enough to ask, “Where’s the closet, John?”

“It’s…it’s down the hall. Right there.” John pointed the way with his flashlight, its beam shining a wide circle on the closed, slatted panels of the closet he’d seen Charlie enter—and never leave. He didn’t dare lower the light towards the floor, almost afraid he’d see blood seeping out from beneath it, sticking forever into the carpet. Even if it wouldn’t be real.

“Alright. You two stay here—keep an eye out.”

It wasn’t like John could, or would, approach. With a flashlight in one hand, and a crutch in the other, not to mention the dull ache in his sprained ankle, there was little for him to do but stand at the end of the room and watch from afar.

Even if he hadn’t bene injured, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to open that closet again. No—he was sure. He definitely couldn’t.

Jessica didn’t move, either. She sniffed, once, twice, and her eyes shone faintly in the reflected light as Clay approached the closed doors as carefully and respectfully as he’d approach a mausoleum.

Gun in hand, he gripped the flimsy handle of one door and moved to one side, sliding it open until it folded fully to one side. Nothing stirred. He did the same with the other and stepped closer, shining his light in—and promptly stepped back, swearing under his breath. He covered his mouth with one hand, looking away, before regaining his bearings and looking back in. “They’re still here. Both of them. And that—that thing. I remember that thing. From Henry’s. I’ll just…” His voice didn’t so much trail off as fail him, fading away into nothing.

“There was a doll,” John spoke up, voice raspy and dry. He swallowed and tried to clear it up, but his throat still felt as dry as sandpaper, tongue nothing but a clump of useless cotton. “A rag doll, I think. Do you see it?”

“No—nope.” Clay searched over the two figures and the interior of the closet with a sweep of his light before shaking his head. “Not here. Only them.”

“What are we going to do? How do we even bury her?” Jessica spoke up, voice as strong as ever despite the tears building up in her eyes, glimmering when they caught the light.

John looked her way. “We can’t. We don’t even know if she’s _dead_. They’re just—they’re both not moving. It happened before. And the doll…”

“What about the doll?” Jessica all but snapped.

“I heard them talking. They said the doll was… It…” John paused, gathering his thoughts. Sorting out what was truth and what was a hazy dream. “She’s just like them. The kids. Michael. That little doll kept _our_ Charlie here. It’s important,” he said without doubt.

“I don’t know what to tell you, John. There’s no doll here.” Clay glanced back at them, flashlight still set on the figures inside the closet, though his body blocked them from John and Jessica’s sight. “But he’s right. We can’t bury them—but we have to get them the hell out of here. I have to call in a tip about Jen’s death. Get her taken care of. They can’t be here.” He cleared his throat. “Jessica, I need you to help me move them. Put on those gloves I gave you both.”

Jessica stiffened, standing up straight and tall as she looked down at her already-gloved hands. “Okay.” No matter how sure she sounded, her steps were cautious as she approached Clay, and the closet that held her friend.

“John, you okay to drive with that leg?” His flashlight swept toward John, who nodded swiftly. “Pull my car around to the back. We’ll carry them out the back door and put them—put them in the trunk. Keep the headlights off,” he added, moving aside as Jessica neared.

The light from John’s flashlight faded away from them as he caught the keys Clay tossed his way and hobbled to the door.

Jessica’s breath caught halfway between a whine and a sharp gasp as she caught sight of the two figures impaled together in the closet. The sharp end of the blade protruded an inch or so through the red dress and white metal plates that made up Elizabeth, catching on to some of the synthetic, carrot-orange hair that spilled down her back.

Behind her, facing her, was Charlie. Just out of sight, just out of reach, but so, so close.

They didn’t smell dead. Didn’t smell like Aunt Jen’s body, as it began to decay. They smelled like metal and oil and burnt plastic and electricity—like the solder and sparks of Charlie’s twin-headed project that sat in their dorm room for so many weeks.

_Oh, Charlie_.

Tears started to drip down Jessica’s cheeks at some point—she only noticed it when Clay set a comforting hand briefly on her shoulder before passing the flashlight over to her and reaching out to Elizabeth’s body, almost unsure how to go about moving it.

In the end, he just gripped the body by its waist and pulled back until it slid fully off the large blade and hung heavily in his arms. He staggered a bit, as if surprised by the weight, but managed to keep it off the ground before hauling it up into his arms in a more secure grip, leaving her heels to drag on the carpet.

The crunch of dirt and gravel and the vague squeaking of brakes, then the sound of the trunk popping open alerted them of John’s return. Clay heaved a sigh before pulling Elizabeth’s unmoving, sagging body toward the back door.

Now, Jessica could see Charlie fully. Slumped forward, eyes closed, brown hair as messy as ever and covering most of her face. She looked like she could be asleep, like the times she’d just dropped onto her rumpled bed after working on her robot project for too long into the night, not even bothering to change into pajamas or pull the blankets back or even move aside the clutter, satisfied just lying among the mess she could never bother to clean.

She reached out to brush the hair away from Charlie’s face, hoping it was true, that she was just asleep, and her eyes would snap right open. She’d smile and say something awkward and out of place but so endearing and they’d all go on living as they did before, attending St. George and being teenage almost-adults, only concerned with course exams and friendship and love lives and whatever else.

But she didn’t move.

Jessica’s eyes dropped down to the knife as her hand dropped back to her side. There wasn’t any blood. The body had no more to give, after losing so much of it in that twisted Freddy that snapped her up like a living iron maiden. And before that, what she’d already lost at Freddy’s. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered under her breath, pressing her lips tight together as she set the flashlight on the shelf and reached out, one hand on her friend’s shoulder and the other at her waist, tugging her body forward across the blade.

Something caught—creaked. She stopped.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d bring Charlie and the monstrosity behind her both crashing down on top of her.

“Here.”

Another flashlight lit up the closet as a gloved hand carefully reached out to steady the structure behind Charlie. John kept to the side to give Jessica space, and lowered the light to the floor so they didn’t have to see Charlie’s expression in such stark clarity. 

Jessica nodded and continued pulling Charlie away until she sagged forward as dead weight. Her lips trembled fiercely, but she held herself together and embraced her friend’s body before shifting it around and picking her up like a sleeping child. She still had the strength and muscle of a high school athlete, so it wasn’t a struggle. Not physically.

Clay met her at the door, taking the burden on himself. For a moment, Jessica lingered in the doorframe, but then followed him out to the car, watching as he set the body into the open trunk beside Elizabeth, as careful as if she truly were only sleeping. He set his hands on the trunk and stared into it for a moment, dazed, before shaking his head slowly and closing it as quietly as he could.

“Now, that thing,” he said, running a hand across his forehead before stepping back inside, Jessica following behind.

John still stood at the closet, gazing in at the contraption and its vicious knife that still stuck outward, tarnished but not bloody.

“This thing killed Jen,” he said quietly, creating a new narrative. “We can move it—make it look like an accident. Or…”

“ _John_.” Jessica spat the word in disbelief, staring at him with wide eyes.

Clay sucked in a breath at the same time, staring at the knife, then back toward the dining room. “No, he’s right. That kind of injury… This _thing_ being kept here…” He looked down at his hands and sighed. “She couldn’t take what happened to her family and followed in her brother’s footsteps. No one would question it.”

“I know we can’t exactly turn Elizabeth in for killing her, but—really?” Jessica hissed. “It’s…it’s sick.”

“It is,” Clay agreed. “But it would guarantee that this wouldn’t become a crime scene. No one would take anything in as evidence. No one would look too deep. She could get a burial as soon as possible and wouldn’t sit in a morgue. They deserve peace after all this,” he added, tone solemn.

A moment of tense, heavy silence passed between them.

“You two go to the car. You’ve seen enough. I’ll handle it.”

John and Jessica shared a look, then glanced toward the closet in unison. They got what they’d come here for—and Jen did deserve more than an unsolved murder case hanging over her name, even if the alternative was grim.

They left Aunt Jen’s home and returned to the car, sitting in silence, trying not to think about what was inside the house, or in the trunk behind them.

They never wanted to see Silver Reef again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [takecake](https://takecake.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read my collection of Never Knew AU snippets, a portion of this chapter will be quite familiar to you, I think. Thanks so much for the kudos, and please consider leaving a comment after reading this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

**_June, 1997_ **

 

_“HEL-LO ABQ, morning’s off to a great start and looks to stay that way all day, with a high of eighty-eight sunny degrees that will dip down into the mid-sixties later tonight, listeners, so don’t go changing your plans anytime soon. Weather reports show that winds will pick up around Friday, though, so if you have any weekend plans, keep an eye out on the dust levels and always respect the sand._

_“Let’s shake off the sleep and get that blood pumping with some high-energy hit-singles, starting with our favorite boy band and some Aqua, for all you Backstreet Boys and Barbie Girls starting the workday out there. See you in a few.”_

Sammy reached out to smash the sleep button of his alarm clock on the first word of the first song, and nearly rolled right off the bed as he did so. He stopped himself, just barely, and blinked over at the strips of sunlight that filtered into the room through half-closed blinds.

This was the start of his first school-free summer.

Graduation went off without a hitch, a full grade year early, and he’d been invited to attend a handful of universities within a local radius and also out of state in California and Arizona, with the possibility of a gap year for some workforce experience. Plenty of choices. Plenty of decisions to make for his future.

But for now, the summer was his.

He pushed himself out of bed and scratched a hand through his mussed-up curly hair, making a futile attempt to smooth it out when he caught sight of his reflection in the long mirror that hung on the back of his door, lined with several school newspaper clippings. It needed a trim soon, but not too soon. Not until the strands got long enough to creep into his eyes.

Unlike his messy, just-woke-up look, his room was neat and tidy, with all dirty clothes tossed into the laundry basket and all clean clothes folded away into a dresser—he knew exactly where to look for his favorite jeans and T-shirt. On his bedside table, the only thing out of place was a half-folded map of the U.S., marked-up with red circles and lines throughout the Southwest, drifting into the West Coast, too. Next to his bedside table, tucked away into the corner, was a black duffel bag stuffed full with everything he needed for an extensive, multi-state road trip.

He wanted to leave right away. But first: breakfast.

“Mom?” he called out as he made his way down the stairs, knowing she’d be awake and getting ready for work, if not ready to head right out the door this early. Summer was peak time for realty agencies, she always said, and the business was in the buyer’s market now. She liked to be prepared and she liked to keep busy.

Her heels clicked across the tiles in the kitchen, toward his voice. “Oh, good, you’re awake. I didn’t know if I’d have to leave you without saying goodbye or not. As if I _would_.” They clicked away again. “I know you already packed your snacks and whatnot for the trip, but these apple juices were on sale. The cheese crackers, too. You can never take too much food.”

“Mom, come on. I’m seventeen, not seven.”

“No, but you’re leaving on a road trip and I can’t let you go without making sure you have more than enough to eat. You have the card I set up for you?”

He hummed as he reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the kitchen, seeing the eight-pack of kid-sized juice boxes and package of peanut-butter sandwich crackers stacked together on the dining table beside a plate of eggs and bacon and toast, just like when she left him a full breakfast and lunch bag in primary school. And middle school. And sometimes high school. “I have it. I even remember the PIN. _And_ I have the phone card.”

His mother stared across the kitchen counter at him coolly, pausing as she packed a bag of trail mix away into her purse. “I’m _only_ double-checking, Sammy.” She zipped up the zipper with purpose and set the purse strap on her shoulder before approaching him, arms outspread. “Now, give me a hug like you’ll miss me.”

With a barely-contained and good-natured eyeroll, he accepted his mother’s hug and leaned down to put his arms around her in a quick embrace. Even with the heels, she wasn’t by any means tall. Tiny, and always fast and full of energy, like a human-sized hummingbird. Had been that way for as long as he could remember. “I _will_ miss you, Mom. Jeez.”

“Alright. Okay.” She pulled away and held him at arm’s length, looking him over. A wry smile crossed her face before she leaned up to peck him on the cheek and muss up his hair fondly. “Love you. Be safe. Don’t forget to call. And come _right_ back on home if you change your mind.”

“I know. I will,” he said, reaching up to fix his hair as he tried to avoid her concerned expression, creased with worry lines that were barely ever present, that made his stomach sink just a bit. He didn’t want her to worry—but it was understandable. It was the first time he’d be setting out on his own, and for so long. No chaperones, like with school trips. No safety nets. Hell, he was worried, too. “Love you too, Mom.”

Her lips pressed together in a tight smile as she took him by the arms again, fixing him with the stare of a mother who’d watched her son grow into a young man who would go off to live his own life. “You be careful, Samuel,” she said again, using his full name—only doing so when she did not want to be disobeyed.

He stood at the front door and waved her off as her car pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, and he stood there a little longer even after she rounded the corner.

It was too bad his “college scouting road trip” was all a lie.

Once—once it was the truth. But now…

Sammy closed the door, locked it behind him and took his wallet from his back pocket, unfolding it and taking out the single, folded photo held within. 

_A keepsake. Just in case_ , read the message scrawled on its back in an elegant, practiced cursive hand. Not his mother’s writing. Not familiar by any means.

The contents of the photo, however, were.

He didn’t unfold it just then—couldn’t. Only held it between his fingers and stared at the penned words until they lost meaning and he could no longer read them, then returned the photo and his wallet where they belonged.

He wouldn’t be going to Santa Fe, or Phoenix, or Los Angeles that summer. His sole destination was Hurricane, Utah.

 

* * *

 

It had been an eight-hour, non-stop drive, and the sun was still up by the time he pulled in at the cheapest-looking roadside motel he could find. He hadn’t been stupid about this trip. Right alongside his postponed road trip, he’d set aside plans to visit this corner of Utah for at most a week—and made sure to withdraw enough cash from an ATM along his planned route to keep his mother from being alerted of bank account activity so far from home, in the last place she’d ever want to hear about. She was always lenient with the way she raised him, if not a bit clingy and over-mothering, but the one rule of the house was to _never_ mention Utah. Never mention New Harmony, his hometown—nothing. She’d never let him out of her sight if she found out where he was.

But her parenting habits made complete sense.

After dropping his duffel bag onto the single bed in the claustrophobically small motel room, he searched through one of the pockets for a folded-up paper he’d copied and printed at the school library a few weeks beforehand.

A single, faded black-and-white photo headed the page, and below it, a name in bold print. Below that, a short article that detailed the event. And most important of all, a date.

_CHARLOTTE EMILY_

_1980-1983_

_HURRICANE—Charlotte Emily was declared legally dead on November 4, 1983, at the age of 3. She was born in New Harmony, Utah on May 13, 1980 to Henry and Hannah Emily, along with her twin brother Samuel. A private burial will take place at Silent Sanctuary Cemetery in Hurricane, Utah on November 6, 1983._

_Charlotte became part of a missing person’s case in November of 1982, and was never found, as the case remains cold according to local authorities. But she will remain forever loved. Survivors include her parents, her brother, and one aunt._

Survived by their father, at least, up until his own death. Sammy hadn’t been able to find that obituary in his mother’s files.

But he was buried here, and newspapers kept archives. He’d find it eventually. And he’d find out why he was Samuel Roth instead of Samuel Emily, along with more about the man he got his middle name from. Along with just what had happened to his missing sister.

With care, he placed the photocopied obituary on the bedside table and rifled through his bag for a local map. He had a few—nationwide, statewide, even worldwide, but nothing that charted only the bounds of this little desert town at the foot of the mountains.

He searched through the drawers of the bedside table, moved aside a bible, a box of tissues and a laminated phone directory, and came up short. But—if he called the main office, maybe someone could give directions. The desk clerk hadn’t been particularly chatty when he checked in, but maybe someone else had taken over the shift since then. He picked up the phone and dialed out the main office extension, raising it to his ear, and waited only a moment before he realized there was no dial tone or ring tone to show the call had gone through. He tried again, and once more, because third time’s the charm, but it soon became apparent the phone did not work.

“Well. You get what you pay for,” he muttered, setting the phone back in its cradle and heaving a sigh.

He double-checked that he had the room key safe in his pocket, along with his wallet and car keys, not planning to come back anytime soon, before making his way to the main office for a face-to-face visit. If he was lucky, the office would have a rack of local pamphlets that highlighted major sights—and maps. He didn’t remember seeing one when he arrived, but he hadn’t been looking, either.

His room was the furthest from the office, at the end of the short stretch of eight units. No other cars were currently parked outside along with his, but he passed by two _do not disturb_ tags that hung listlessly from doorknobs. The muffled hum of television voices reached the outside, too, if not the voices of the guests themselves.

Through the scuffed-up window of the main office, he spotted the same man who’d checked him in—leaning back in an office chair and browsing a sports magazine that didn’t so much focus on the sports as it modeled the bodies of popular female celebrities.

He didn’t bother looking up when Sammy opened the door, setting off the tiny, tinkling bell that introduced a visitor.

Old, tinny country music emanated from a radio behind the desk, set at a volume just loud enough to be heard. The room stank of cigarettes, even though the lodgings were all declared to be non-smoking areas. But there was no ash tray filled with them anywhere around. Or much of anything else. Only a sad and grimy coffee maker sitting at the far corner of the desk, beside a quickly-scrawled, hand-written sign that read FREE TO GUESTS.

Sammy waited a moment, but the man still didn’t look up. Didn’t even turn the page.

Maybe he’d be better off just driving around town until he found what he was looking for.

He lingered in the doorway, glancing around for a stack of pamphlets, but there was nothing in the office aside from the desk and a single, slightly-stained plastic lawn chair for a guest to rest in. There weren’t even any papers or fliers tacked to the walls. No—that wasn’t quite right. A single, small plaque, almost the same color as the wood paneling, hung on the far right wall, displaying _Employee Of The Month_ in bold capital letters. Etched into the metal tag was the name _Fritz Smith_ with a small, square photo attached beneath it, of a man with brown skin a shade or so darker than Sammy’s own. Possibly the man at the desk, if a much younger, happier, teenage version of him. From March of 199-something. The last number had been scuffed too deeply to read.

“What is it?” the man finally asked as he peered over the edge of his magazine, eyes half-lidded, tired, and indifferent. “Need more towels? The laundry’s not ready yet because it’s the cleaning lady’s day off, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Toilet paper’s out, too. But I got plenty of those little shampoos, if you need those. That’s about it. Oh, and don’t ask about the hot water. It’s always warm, and warm is hot enough. This ain’t the _Four Seasons_.”

Sammy tore his eyes away from the plaque and blinked at possibly-Fritz’s disinterested gaze. “Oh—no. No, I don’t need anything like that. I need directions.”

“Directions?”

“To Silent Sanctuary Cemetery.”

If possible, the man’s disinterest only grew. “Silent Sanctuary Cemetery,” he mused, voice toneless. “We just call it _the cemetery_ ‘round here. The only cemetery in town.” He scratched beneath the bill of his baseball cap and into the mess of black hair squished down under it before finally lowering the magazine. A hand-written name tag hung skewed on the front of his shirt and read _Fritz_ , the very same as the employee award plaque, though the name didn’t seem to suit him. Like a classroom nametag with the word I.C. BUTTS scrawled on it as a joke identity.

Briefly, he wondered if his own name suited him.

“Everyone gets buried there eventually. You live here, you die here. No one ever really gets out.”

Sammy’s eyes flicked up to Fritz’s, though he hid his confusion well. “Oh, uh. Well. People say that about a lot of small towns, I’m sure it’s not…”

On second thought, even if it was a waste of gas, driving blindly around town was starting to sound like a better option. Sammy contained the grimace pulling at his lips and shifted his weight, ready to take his leave and pretend this conversation never happened.

“It’s just down the road,” Fritz continued, as if he hadn’t spouted that morbid sentence. “About two miles. You’ll see a sign. Turn off left at the old road and follow it to the end.”

“Thanks,” Sammy said drily, trying to stay as polite as possible, but straining. He made a mental note to pick up a local map as soon as possible. And maybe find a new motel somewhere else—anywhere that wasn’t here.

Fritz didn’t acknowledge him, and only went back to browsing his magazine.

“Oh, right.” He stopped, hand on the door, and turned to the man at the desk again. “The phone in my room, it doesn’t work. Is there a payphone?”

“No. And the phones never work, kid.”

“Let me guess. Phone bill’s not paid?”

Fritz narrowed his eyes over the top of his magazine, but Sammy left the office before any more could be said.

It didn’t take long to find the cemetery—both it and the motel were on the outskirts of town where it was quiet and isolated. Forgotten and left to collect dust.

A single, narrow and poorly-paved, road led to a rusted, arched gate that read _Silent Sanctuary Cemetery_ , and the parking lot was nothing but a dirt lot on either side of it, with no markings to indicate where it ended and the desert scrublands began. The cemetery, though, was blessed with a well-maintained green lawn, and a few trees that livened up the bleak horizon of blue sky and the soft, faded outlines of mountains in the distance.

That in itself brought a small amount comfort to Sammy. Enough to keep him from reversing right out of the dusty parking lot and leaving it all behind, pretending he hadn’t ever come here and getting back on track with his college road trip.

He parked his pickup truck close to the gate to keep from walking across too much dirt—and for a quick getaway if he changed his mind—but didn’t immediately turn off the ignition. He fished the folded photo from his wallet and gazed again at the handwriting on its back before opening it up and staring at the image of two headstones set together in an empty corner of the cemetery, close enough together that they belonged to the same family.

The names and dates of both were fully visible, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully take them in at the moment. They were already burned into his mind, anyway. The dirt around one was disturbed and fresh, only recently covered up. The other sat upon a bed of fresh green grass. Colorful bouquets sat at the bases of each one, bought from the same place and brought by the same person, for the way they looked the same, and he felt a brief stab of guilt that he hadn’t thought to bring even a single flower.

The black wrought-iron cemetery gate stood in the left corner, not rusted, not peeling, and the wooden bottom of what was probably a telephone pole stood behind the two plots. He could see the same telephone pole from here.

Not wasting another moment, he took the keys from the ignition and stepped out into the dirt lot, because it was always better to rip this kind of thing off quicker than a bandaid.

It only occurred to him then that another car had been parked there the whole time, just a short distance from his. Almost the same color as the sandy dirt around him, but not blending in _that_ well. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

_Get it together._

The tombstones all looked the same. Rarely was there a specialized one of an angel statue or one cut from a different shape or stone. Most were old and gray, set in staggered lines throughout the cemetery. But he knew exactly where to go. He quickly veered off from the straight path that cut through the entire place and followed along the gate instead, keeping an eye out for the two tombstones that matched the photo in his hand. The place was small, but not that small, holdings years and years—centuries, even—of the deceased that had lived in or passed through Hurricane and never left, resting eternally throughout the plot that stretched along for perhaps a half mile.

The telephone pole near the two graves rapidly approached. He hurried to reach it, and only stopped when he saw that he wasn’t alone.

Go figure, the only other person at the cemetery that day would also be visiting the family site.

He only saw a tall man from the back, who had his head bowed and attention fully focused on the tombstone before him. The man wore a brown leather jacket even this close to the summer, and kept his hands in its pockets as if they were cold. Dirt-scuffed work boots that had seen much labor were on his feet—but from all of that, Sammy couldn’t tell if he was an old friend of his father’s or someone who’d known the family. Maybe even his sister’s friend, once.

“… _sorry I can’t give you a real burial_ ,” Sammy heard him say as he walked closer, trying to make his presence known without outright approaching the site and infringing upon the stranger’s moment. But in the end, he didn’t have to say anything. His shoes crunched over the bare scrape of dirt and pebbles that surrounded the burial site and could be heard across the entire cemetery for as loud as it was.

The man stopped talking and glanced over his shoulder, tensing up as he saw he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t really a _man_ —not a full adult, as he’d been expecting. A young man, a teenager, even, only a little older than Sammy himself. Definitely not an old friend of his father’s. His face was peaky and pale, as if he’d seen a ghost—but he didn’t look like he’d been healthy in quite some time. Dark shadows smudged the skin beneath weary eyes. Short, unbrushed black hair stuck up in all directions. An untended five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw.

Maybe if he hadn’t been in such a rush, if he’d taken his time, the man would have left before he arrived.

“Didn’t think I’d see anyone else out here. You knew them?” Sammy asked automatically, reading over the names on the tombstones, the dates of beginning and end, before dropping his gaze to the ground. The grass was no longer green around here—set just far enough away from the automated sprinkler system that it had died and gave way to scrubby, scraggly weeds and dirt, as if the desert had reached out to take it back. The bunches of flowers that had once dotted their bases were no longer present, and it didn’t look like anyone had left anything for them in a long, long while, leaving them cold. Impersonal. He slipped the more colorful, more serene, photo into his pocket and glanced back at the man, awaiting an answer.

“Yeah. Neighbors—we were neighbors,” the man said, an odd catch in his voice. “Uh, have I—have I seen you before? Sorry. Weird question—forget it. I’m John.” He took a moment, blinking rapidly. “You knew them, too?”

“In a way. I can’t remember either of them.” He gave a vague nod. “Sammy.”

“Sammy…?” John repeated faintly, looking back to the two tombstones, face paling to a stark, almost-chalk-white, as if the ghost had come back to stare him down.

“Yep. Apparently I’m a twin, but… grew up alone. Figured it was time I visited my sister. And my dad.” There was no avoiding it now. He approached the tombstones, stepped carefully around John, and crouched down to run a hand over the stone-carved name and its few, short years. The dents of the letters were filled with dirt and grime. “Her name was Charlotte…”

“Charlie,” John said abruptly from behind him, then cleared his throat. “He called her Charlie. Henry did. Before…”

“ _Before_ ,” Sammy repeated with a sigh. “I didn’t even know he _died_. Didn’t really know about either of them until I found an old photo, then an obituary with my name in it… and let’s just say family secrets don’t stay secret for long.” He pursed his lips, trying to keep from rambling. If no one else had been around, he wouldn’t have said a word. But once he started, it was hard to stop. Like he had to say it, to make it real.

He stood and turned to his father’s grave, staring down at it from above, noticing that John had been speaking to his sister’s grave and not his father’s.

“You don’t know what happened?” John asked, shoes scuffing on the dirt as he stepped back to give him space.

“No. I only found one obituary. Charlotte— _Charlie’s_. I always thought my dad was some deadbeat who left Mom to raise me on her own since she never mentioned him. Or that I was a secret one-night stand baby. For a while, that he was a super space hero who had to go live on the moon and couldn’t come home. But it turns out his name was Henry and he’s been dead since I was…five.” Seeing the names and dates carved into stone brought on a different feeling than just reading them on the photo. He’d expected an invisible curtain of finality to be drawn over this unknown part of his life. Now, it dug open a pit in his heart and made him so much more aware that something _had_ been missing. It weighed him down. Held him in place. “It’s weird, mourning people you never knew. _Should_ have known.”

John didn’t speak, but Sammy knew he hadn’t wandered off because his shoes hadn’t made another sound.

“Were you their neighbor in New Harmony, or here in Hurricane?”

“Here,” he answered quickly. “In Hurricane. A long time ago.”

“It would’ve been. Is their house still around?”

“…No,” he said at length. Sammy turned toward him in time to see him duck his head. “A tornado hit, a while back. It’s not there anymore. Sorry. But—it was a nice house. You could tell a family lived there. They were—they were both…”

“Happy?”

“Back then. I think—yeah. They were happy.” John tried to smile, but it came across as forced. He dropped it shortly after trying.

“You must’ve cared about them a lot, to visit even after all this time. I’m…I’m glad they aren’t alone.” Sammy rose to his feet, setting a hand on his father’s tombstone as he straightened. “Hey, I know this is sudden, we don’t know each other, but I’m not in town for long. And since you knew them, would you… Could you tell me what they were like? What you remember?”

John looked down at his boots, shifting his foot along the dirt. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I…” His voice trailed off as he reached for the words, making a decision. “Yeah. I can. There’s a diner called Junior’s down the main road a little ways away from here. Let’s—let’s talk there.”

“Right,” Sammy nodded, blinking and glancing around at the cemetery. “Right. You talk, I’ll pay,” he offered, almost wincing at the words but being too proper to take it back—and too polite to not offer at all. Even so, he had a strict budget to adhere to in Hurricane without needing to fall back on another ATM withdrawal and risk the bank calling his mom about questionable account activity in _Utah_. 

But if he got the information he wanted, he could leave that much sooner and get back on the road with her none the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at [takecake](https://takecake.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter Two

 John sat in his car, mindlessly tapping his hands against the steering wheel, if only to keep them from shaking, and his heart thumped heavy and rapid in his chest. Just _what_ had he agreed to? Suggested, even? Sammy’s face—his _name_ —caught him off guard, and he hadn’t fully thought his words through before speaking them.

What would he even say? The Charlie _he_ knew wasn’t supposed to exist. And Henry hadn’t spoken any but a handful of words to him during the short time he’d known him. Everything he knew about Henry Emily, in fact, came from Charlie.

_The Charlie I would’ve known would have been a baby,_ he told himself. _Barely a toddler._ And he wouldn’t have been much older. Wouldn’t have remembered anything particularly notable.

He glanced up through the passenger side window, to where Sammy’s pickup truck pulled into a parking spot a space away. He’d followed behind him during the short drive, because John hadn’t thought to leave before him and give himself enough time to get a story together, but then again, he hadn’t given him proper directions to avoid it, either.

And it was too late to ditch him, now.

His hands stilled, but his heart didn’t. He steeled himself the best he could and left the car.

Junior’s diner smelled of sizzling, greasy meals, almost overpowered by the heady scent of berry pie that the place was known for. It was a small place, but being on the main road, it saw enough business to keep running for years—decades, even. John helped it along, too, frequenting it for lunch breaks and sometimes breakfast, when he had the time. And also late night snacks when he found he couldn’t sleep or stay at home. Its neon sign, flashing twenty-four-hour service, always welcomed him in like a beacon in the night.

He settled in at his usual spot, a small booth near the door, and Sammy didn’t waste a moment sitting down across from him and folding his arms across the table as the waitress brought by their menus.

“Heya, John!” she said with a smile, white teeth framed by ruby-red lipstick. “You’re in pretty late today. And you brought a friend! Good to see you social.”

“Yeah…” John glanced to the name tag on the woman’s chest, never having bothered to learn her name during all the times he’d eaten at the diner. Usually, she’d been the one talking, carrying the weight of chatty, casual conversations, and he required little input. He couldn’t even remember giving his name, but must have at some point, for her to get so friendly.

…He couldn’t even remember making a friend, these days.

Her name tag read POPPY.

“Anyway, what can I get you?” Poppy waved a hand that held a pen, and poised it over the notepad she pulled from her striped skirt’s pocket. “The usual for you? And for your friend…?”

“Uh—just a coffee for me, actually. I’ll wait on the food,” John said, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans and looking to Sammy.

Sammy looked up from the menu, returning the glance uncertainly. He did say he’d pay, but John didn’t want him to have to foot a large bill—that, and he didn’t think he could eat with the prickling of adrenaline eating away at him, alternating between the need to run for the door and a constant sweat making his palms clammy. Sammy didn’t comment on it, though, and ordered his food without pause.

“Alright then,” said Poppy, setting her pen behind her ear. “I’ll bring you a couple waters here soon, and if you change your mind on the food, John, just gimme a shout. The burger shouldn’t take long,” she said to Sammy, along with a friendly wink before she moved on to the next table.

John didn’t speak up, not immediately. But Sammy waited politely, not prodding for information and letting him take his time.

Where did he even begin?

“Have you lived here your whole life?” Sammy spoke up after a few awkward moments, clearing his throat and glancing out at the diner counter, at the backs of truckers, at the pies and cakes sitting under glass domes. Anywhere but at John.

He didn’t find it rude. The lack of eye contact made it easier to lie.

John didn’t look directly at him either, focusing mostly on the scuffed but shiny white tiles on the floor. “Not my whole life. I moved away for a few years, when I was a kid, but not too far. Then came back around a year ago and...” _And too much happened, and I forgot to leave again. Now, I don’t even think I could._ “And I still have family here.” He made a vague gesture with one hand before reaching for the napkin dispenser, just for something to distract himself with, but it was empty.

By now, Sammy was looking his way again, and he made the mistake of looking him straight in the face—at the face that was so much like Charlie’s, except for the freckles. They weren’t identical twins by any means, but they shared the same round face, the same curly brown hair, the same stance. The same silhouette. If he just caught a glance at him from the corner of his eye, John might think he’d seen Charlie herself.

(And he did, if only for a shock of a moment, at the cemetery.)

But Sammy wasn’t Charlie. He couldn’t compare everything about him to her just because he was her long-lost twin; her reflection in a smudged mirror.

He did worry that he could see through the lie, though.

“I came from Albuquerque—I guess that’s where my mom took me after everything happened, ‘cause I can’t remember living anywhere else. But we don’t have any extended family. Not really sure why she moved us there,” Sammy said, giving no indication that he caught on to a contradiction, or a nonsensical detail.

“One of my aunts picked up and left home and just kept driving until she found a place she liked,” John offered, but couldn’t remember if it was the truth or just a story the family liked to tell during reunions. He was twelve the last time he attended a big reunion, but a handful of cousins did still live in the area, from here to St. George. He hadn’t lied about that.

“Must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“Yeah…” John trailed off, thought to speak up again, but paused as Poppy returned with their food balanced on a single tray.

“Here you go, boys,” she said, to a chorus of thank-yous, before propping the empty tray against her hip and tilting her head a bit. “So. Haven’t seen your face around, before. You new?”

Sammy perked up. “Just passing through. Staying at that motel down the street—the Midnight Motorist Inn, I think.” He paused. “Uh—actually, I lived in the area. A long time ago—New Harmony’s my hometown.”

“New Harmony huh…?” Poppy smacked her gum thoughtfully, eyeing him with interest. “Don’t s’pose you’d remember, but that Freddy Fazbear’s place apparently started out there. Then a kid got snatched, and more kiddos got snatched and… Well, I shouldn’t really talk about it. Bit of a sore spot for the whole town. Happened again with that clown place that opened up a few weeks ago, but everyone came back home safe and—One moment, sir, I’ll be right there with your menu!” She cut herself off suddenly and hurried off to tend to the awaiting customer.

“More missing children…?” Sammy said under his breath, not touching his meal.

John stared down into his coffee, feeling his nerves prickle and his pulse pick up again.

“So. Yeah. You said you didn’t know what happened. Charlie, she—she was taken. When she was really little. I was a kid, too; I barely remember it.” He spoke quietly, even though the nearest customer was two booths away and Poppy had yet to return for more chit chat. “But I do remember they were happy. Before it,” he said quickly. “Sorry, there’s really not much I can say about it all.”

Sammy didn’t speak. Still didn’t touch his food.

John fiddled with his coffee cup, not sure he could pick it up just yet. Not until his hands stopped shaking. “Charlie was a happy little girl. Didn’t smile much, but she was happy around her dad. He was happy, too. He…made her all kinds of toys. Mechanical kinds. A doll, a unicorn, a rabbit. Ella, Stanley, and Theodore.”

“You still remember their names?”

John paused. “Yeah—yeah. I do. Weird.”

Sammy nodded. He reached for a french fry, but didn’t take it from the plate. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. He didn’t unfold the photograph as he set it on the table, where something in blue ink was written across the white back. He slid the photo toward John and tapped the message scrawled onto it.

“It’s a long shot, but do you remember anyone who wrote like this, from back then?”

“It looks like—I know that handwriting. I’ve seen it before, it’s—” John stopped short, the words almost toppling off the tip of his tongue. _Aunt Jen’s._ A chill gripped him. “No. I can’t remember. I did see it before, but I don’t know whose it is. It looks like a woman’s writing though.”

Sammy set the photo aside with a disappointed half-smile, and looked to his plate of food but, again, didn’t eat. “Yeah. It was a long time ago.” He took a breath. “It doesn’t matter. All of what you said is more than I could’ve asked for. There’s one more thing I want to ask, though. Did—” He hesitated. “Did my dad ever mention me…?”

“Yeah,” John answered quickly—too quick to think of what that answer implied. Henry had never even mentioned his wife. Had only spoken a handful of words to John himself, even then. But Charlie… _John’s_ Charlie…she spoke enough about Sammy for him to patch together an answer. “All the time. He missed you. He loved you.”

If there were any more words that could have been said, Sammy didn’t speak them. He simply stood from the booth and set down a couple of bills on the table before nodding at John with a stiff, strained smile. “Thanks.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, he looked like he was about to cry.

Poppy wandered back over as soon as the door shut behind him. “Sheesh, Johnny Boy, what’d you say to him? He looked like you broke his little heart. Like a kicked puppy or something. Didn’t even touch his food.” She picked up the cash and counted it, face contorting in approval at the tip, and pocketed it before leaning against the edge of John’s booth. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“Good. Not bad,” John said, glancing over his shoulder and through the window, trying to catch sight of Sammy’s car as it returned to the road. He could have said something better. He _should_ have. Instead of…lying. He couldn’t disrespect Charlie—Charlie’s memory—like that.

She eyed him suspiciously. “If you say so. So, did you change your mind about the food? Your buddy left enough to cover you. Or I could get you a big slice of cherry pie. On the house. That’ll make you smile.”

“I’m alright. Really. I just haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.” He took a drink from his now cold coffee, barely tasting it as he caught sight of the photo Sammy left behind. “I just—thanks really, but—I have to go make a call. I’ll see you later. Bye, Poppy,” he said, picking up the photo and stuffing it in his jacket pocket before rushing out.

John didn’t wait to get back to his apartment to make the call. He stopped when he drove into town, at the first pay phone he spotted, and double-parked in the old parking lot beside it, barely having enough change on hand to pay the fee—only to stand there, staring at the number keys, before picking up the faded, tattered phonebook sitting under the telephone. Dust clouded up in the air as he flipped through the pages, cradling the phone between his shoulder and jaw, looking for the local B section, then the back of it, until he found the name and number he needed. He quickly punched it in.

The dial tone abruptly cut off, but he spoke first. “Clay?”

“ _John?_ ”

“Jessica…?” He squinted down at the phonebook, sure he’d looked up BURKE and not BENNETT, but he’d already closed it and stuffed it back onto its shelf and couldn’t confirm. She didn’t have a local address, anyway. “What are—I did call Clay’s house, right?” Speaking took more effort than he expected, his voice faint and hoarse.

“Yeah. Yeah, you totally did. He’s outside—I was here by the phone, and…” She trailed off. “I didn’t know you kept in touch with Clay. Considering how I haven’t had my calls returned for over a month.” Her sharp words never dulled. John winced just slightly as he stared down into the phone, remembering all the messages she’d left on his answering machine, always intending to call back, but never managing to. A couple of the ignored messages had been from Clay, too.

“I didn’t know you went over there.” He didn’t bother defending his neglect and redirected the conversation.

“Oh, well. Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? After he helped us through so much. And you would’ve _known_ there was a barbecue today if you picked up the phone.”

“I—sorry. Sorry, Jessica. I got busy with work.” It was a weak excuse—he got two days off per week and this was one of them.

She noticed. There was a pause on the other end, and the faint crackling of a sigh breathed too close to the receiver. “John, are you okay?”

John watched the cars at the convenience store gas pumps across the street instead of giving an answer. “I just—you know, I’ll call back later. It’s fine.”

“John,” she repeated, and waited for him to say something. He kept the phone in his hand and didn’t hang it up just yet. Didn’t speak, either. Jessica broke the silence. “You should come by,” she said, crisp tone softening. “You _are_ invited. It’d be good to catch up.”

He leaned his arm against the top of the pay phone, tapping his fingers against the metal casing, hoping for a distraction to jump in his path. None did. “I… Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

“Good. I’ll let Clay know.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but let the call end there.

The drive didn’t take nearly as long as John hoped it would. Neither did the walk to the front door.

The door itself was wide open, and John could see the hallway and stairs through the glass panes of the storm door. The house looked much cleaner since the last time he’d been there, considering back then the door had been busted off its hinges and a pool of Clay’s blood had stained the floor. When he stepped inside and glanced into the living room, he half expected to find the return of messy stacks of files, boxes, and empty liquor bottles spread across the floor and furniture. What he found instead was a perfectly clean and welcoming living space, like it had all been swept under the rug.

The smoky smell of a home-cooked, spicy barbecue found him soon after. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until he left the diner without eating, but his mouth was already watering. He could only live on convenience store junk and greasy spoon food for so long—he wasn’t a kid that could run on that stuff like fuel anymore, after all—and couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been to a barbecue.

But he didn’t come here for the food. He came here to talk to Clay.

“I thought I heard the door. Wow. You really came.”

…And Jessica.

“Jessica. Hi.” Despite no longer being one, he did feel like a dumb little kid, though. There was just something about Jessica—and it wasn’t the intimidating height—that reminded him of being reprimanded by a teacher. Maybe it was the more mature, shorter hair, or the lighter shade it had taken on. If she hadn’t spoken, he probably wouldn’t have recognized her with the new haircut.

But—well. It wasn’t any of that. He’d been a bad friend—hadn’t even thought to call her about the Sammy situation before rushing to Clay.

He deserved the crossed arms and the accusing, expectant, hawkish stare.

“You look good,” he offered lamely, wishing he hadn’t worn his jacket, because it was steadily growing unbearably hot.

She rolled her eyes in response. “And you _don’t_. This is exactly what I was worried about—” She cut herself off abruptly and blinked a few times, eyes strangely shiny, before sighing. “I went by your apartment a little while after…you know. You weren’t home. Then, the calls…” Her voice softened. “What have you been doing to yourself, John?”

“John?” Clay’s voice sounded from around the corner, before he entered the hallway from the kitchen. A warm, pleased smile crossed his face when he spotted him—but quickly froze, and fell, when he actually laid eyes on him. Jessica wasn’t just saying that to be petty—he must not have looked good. He cleared his throat and skirted around Jessica to set a hand on John’s shoulder. “Hey. Why don’t you sit down?”

He led him to the living room instead of the kitchen, and John didn’t resist when he steered him toward the sofa. It was much more comfortable than the one in his apartment that had sagging, worn-down cushions and was probably broken down somewhere. But he couldn’t savor the comfort. He almost rose to his feet again, before Clay’s concerned gaze pinned him in place. And Jessica’s, from behind him.

“So, yeah. Hi,” John repeated, distracting himself with slipping off his jacket and letting it slump into a pile behind him. He only noticed then that he was wearing long sleeves, and it might have been the shirt he’d slept in the night before, and worn the previous day, but at least it wasn’t as punishing as the jacket. “The food smells great—barbecue, right?” He tried to smile.

They stared at him like he was a stranger that had walked in off the street and sat down on the couch to make small talk.

He stopped smiling.

“Jessica said you called,” Clay changed topics smoothly as he sat on the edge of the armchair across from John, folding his hands together and leaning his arms on his knees. Jessica remained standing, but didn’t say a word. Only stared at John with a furrowed brow, like she was trying to puzzle out a difficult homework question. “I’m glad, it’s been a while. But I wish you would’ve called sooner. Wish I would’ve called more.”

“I…” John didn’t have a response for that. He took a breath, trying to relax, but couldn’t bring himself to lean back into the couch and sink back further and further until he disappeared. Instead, he just wanted to leave. Coming here—being here—was a mistake.

“Mistake? What do you mean?” Jessica spoke up so suddenly it startled him—he hadn’t realized he spoke that aloud.

By now, Clay was back on his feet, rising slowly. “Just take it easy, John. You—you’re sweating bullets. Have you slept lately?”

“No—no. I can’t be here. I have to go.” John jumped to his feet—and almost started when Clay blocked his way.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, we’ll go. How ‘bout the back yard? I have to check the propane tanks. Come on, come help me out.”

“Okay,” John agreed, nodding shakily as he followed Clay down the hall, through the kitchen, the dining room, and out the sliding glass doors that led to the patio.

The cobblestones were unsteady under his feet, but it felt better than the carpet his shoes had sunk into—might have sucked him in fully. It was bright outside—a little too bright. Days were always longer in summer and the sun wasn’t even remotely ready to go down yet. He sat down on the edge of the short flight of steps that led down into a fresh-cut lawn and focused on breathing—relaxing that cold fist that gripped the entirety of his chest, ruthlessly squeezing his heart and lungs as they beat against it, struggling to break free.

The sun helped. Being outside helped more—even though the house was still there. And what was inside. Right beneath their feet. But the distance helped.

His breaths came easier, now, and his heart calmed. He slowly became aware of his shirt sticking to his back, clammy with sweat. He dried his hands against his jeans and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, but it didn’t help.

Clay stood nearby the whole time, never once checking said propane tanks. Not standing too close, either, and giving him space to cool down.

He didn’t realize tears had dripped down his cheeks until the sun started to dry them stiff on his skin and a salty taste hit the corners of his lips, stinging his chapped lips.

He hoped Clay would speak first, say something, anything, because he was always good with words, soothing people, being the good sheriff that never let the town or its citizens down, but he didn’t say anything.

John did instead.

“I...don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, throat raw. “I thought it would be different this time. Because she’s—still here. Because she might come back. I thought I could keep it together and move on, hoping, but—I can’t. She’s gone, really gone, and I don’t—don’t know what to do.” It hurt to speak, not just physically, but because acknowledging mental burdens was never painless. “I don’t feel like me anymore. I feel like I might have died when—when she stopped moving. When I saw her…”

John heard footsteps behind him, but didn’t turn. He buried his face in his hands and dragged them over it and through his hair before folding his arms across his knees.

“I saw her brother.”

“What?” Clay asked abruptly, brow furrowing as he stepped forward and crossed his arms.

“Sammy…?” Jessica asked quietly from behind him, and soon she entered his peripherals, sitting on his other side and setting a hand on his arm. “The twin she always mentioned? I thought—”

“I did, too. I didn’t—didn’t know he really existed.”

“ _Where_ did you see him?”

John licked his lips, wishing they weren’t so dry, that he’d drank more coffee at the diner, or asked for water while in the kitchen, but put that aside as he gathered his thoughts. “I…went to the cemetery. To talk to Charlie. I—it’s just easier, there. Here, it’s just…” He sighed. “You saw how I got. It’s too real.

“He was at the gravesite,” he continued. “I thought—I almost thought he was her. Twins and all. I told him I knew them, before everything. Otherwise I’d just be some stranger, some weirdo imposing on someone else’s family. But then he asked about them, and I… I lied. He asked if Henry ever mentioned him, and I lied. Made something up. Why would I do that? When have I ever lied like that?”

Clay sighed, running his hand over the lower half of his face. “Oh, John. No one likes to let down the surviving family. You said what you thought was best. Hell, I would’ve told the kid the same thing, but I was always under the impression _he_ was the deceased one. Henry—” he paused. “Henry only mentioned losing a kid once—and just one kid. As for the other stuff…” Again, he trailed off, as if dancing around a delicate subject, or just trying to figure out how to phrase it. “I think you should talk to someone. I know of a good therapist—”

“No. I…I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this. Any of this.”

“Then why not write it out?” Jessica said, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ve heard it’s a good outlet, and, well… _you’re_ the resident writer.”

John shook his head. “I haven’t written anything in over a year…” He didn’t even know if he could, anymore. Truth was stranger than fiction, after all, and they’d been through the strangest.

“And, you know, writing is technically artful lying, so if you lied—and for good reason—you were…still being _you_ , John. Maybe for the first time in a while, it sounds like.”

“Thanks, Jessica. …Thanks,” he said, meaning every word.

“Alright. Here’s another idea: try to make it to weekly dinners here,” Clay said with a smile. “We don’t have to eat inside the house—out here on the patio’s fine. Just be present. Social. Catch up with each other.”

“I…yeah. I feel better being here already. I can do that.” He nodded. “I’m…actually really hungry. I don’t know when I ate last. Can we eat now? Please.”

For the first time, a genuine smile tugged at his lips. Didn’t make it all the way, but it was a start.

 

* * *

 

After an hour of good food and idle chatter, John felt closer to his old self than he had in a long, long while.

By now, the sky had darkened. Stars blinked and glimmered above them, and he could even point out a few of the more common constellations. The weather had cooled down as the sun left them behind for the day, too. He’d kicked off his work boots and socks, savoring the fresh comfort of grass beneath his feet while staring skyward and finishing off the few final sips left in his can of coke.

The grass shifted as someone approached.

“Well, Clay won’t accept any help washing dishes and banished me out here,” Jessica said, wandering up at his side, fidgeting with the sleeves of her denim jacket. “I’m really glad you decided to show up, John. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” he agreed, then cleared his throat. “…And it shouldn’t have been. Sorry I’ve been a crappy friend.”

“If I knew what you were going through, I would’ve dragged you out of your apartment. But…it hasn’t been easy for anyone.”

“Even you?” he asked, half-sarcastically, half-seriously. She always seemed so strong, so put-together and ready to take the lead, that it was difficult to think she struggled with anything. But even thinking that brought on a stab of guilt. She _was_ only human. Never the type to cry—but when he paid attention, he could see the slumped shoulders and the distant frown. The make-up that covered the dark shadows beneath her own eyes, but not completely.

Maybe she put up that strong front to cover up her true feelings.

“Even me.” There wasn’t an ounce of flippancy behind the words. “I went to Aunt Jen’s burial,” she said quietly, crossing her arms and looking up at the stars. “I saw it listed in the paper and…it just seemed like the right thing to do. Even though I told myself I never wanted to see Silver Reef again—not since _that_ night.” She took a breath. “No one else was there. _No one_. Just the guy with the backhoe. It was…sad. Like, almost unbearably sad. Do you think Sammy knew about her?”

John shook his head. “He didn’t know anything about the Emilys. I think she knew about him, though. He had a photo that had her handwriting on the back.” Thinking back to that meeting and the photo in his jacket pocket burnt him like he’d held a match for too long and the flame met his fingers. “You said you come over here often.” He shifted the subject. “Is it because of…?”

Jessica shrugged. “Partially. The first few days, I thought maybe something would happen. Maybe she’d wake up again. Then I saw how it started to affect Clay—it was like when he kept Freddy and the others. He never says anything, but having something like that right under your feet can’t be easy for anyone—he can’t deal with it alone. Then, real life got in the way, and I found out my parents are getting divorced. I didn’t even see it coming. So I started spending even more time here… and it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Since everyone is so far away, or _busy_ , and Charlie’s…”

In the basement.

“That…that really sucks. Sorry to hear that,” John said, knowing well what it was like to be in the middle of a divorce, though his parents had been separated since he was fourteen. He hadn’t seen either of them much since then—his mother went back to Japan, asked him to visit during summers, and, while he lived with his father until he graduated, he’d missed him between long factory shifts.

No wonder Jessica visited often. Clay had been nothing less than a father to them through the years.

“Have you talked to anyone else? Marla, Carlton, Lamar…?”

“Marla’s trying to get Lamar back here for the summer, actually. Carlton doesn’t call as much anymore, but Clay said he’s coming back for the summer, too.” She paused. “Do you think… Should we invite Sammy over?”

John froze. “What?”

“Charlie would want us to. Wouldn’t she? Obviously not to tell him the truth—we can barely handle what we know—but to at least include him, since he came all this way.” She spoke with confidence, but, for once, she sounded uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I know where you’re coming from, but I barely had anything to tell him. I wish I didn’t say anything. He’s probably better off away from all this—from everything to do with Freddy’s. I thought we were supposed to let it rest.”

“I know, I know, it seems like opening a wound.” Jessica’s frown deepened. “But as it is, we’re barely keeping a bandaid on everything.” She stopped talking for a moment, and he thought she’d said her piece. That wasn’t the case. “She talked about him so much, it just… I sort of know why you _did_ talk to him, John. I feel like I have to see him with my own eyes.”

“Like you want closure?” he asked, wondering if that had been his reasoning at the time.

“No—of course not. Just a reminder that we aren’t the only ones suffering, here; he never even got the chance to know her.” Her voice softened. “If I can help out even a little…”

“Alright.” He nodded a bit too long, feeling the jittery effects of the caffeine hitting him. Or the effects of the conversation. “I think he said he’s at the Midnight Motorist Inn. The one way at the edge of town.” He paused, weighing the responsibility of keeping ahold of Sammy’s photo or passing it on to Jessica for a secondhand delivery.

He didn’t think he could face Sammy again so soon.

“There’s a photo. In my jacket—he left it behind. It’ll give you a good reason to see him.”

Jessica exhaled, like she’d been waiting for him to shoot down her idea. “Thanks, John.” She paused. “I should get going. I’ll go tell Clay goodbye. And John?”

He turned her way, eyebrows raised.

“You’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah… Of course. I’ll even answer the phone next time.”

She rolled her eyes, but not without a smile.

If she got in touch with Sammy, he knew she’d be able to say what he wished he could’ve.

Once she was out of sight, and when he heard a car starting up, tires crunching on the gravel as it reached the street, he made his way back to Clay’s house. He lingered in the doorway, not quite brave enough to take the step inside. But he’d left his jacket in the living room, which had his keys in one of the pockets, and he had to throw his empty can away. Even with an important reason and an insignificant reason to push him through those doors, he still hesitated.

It seemed like such a minor thing to worry about, but when he started thinking about it, it was like the glass doors had shut themselves and wouldn’t let him through even if he _wanted_ to make the step. He just wasn’t ready.

Fortunately, Clay was nearby, if the clinking of dishes and cabinets closing was anything to go by. “Still here, John?” he called, soon entering the dining room to see John at the doors. “I, uh, have some leftovers for you to take home, if you want them. I always make too much food when I cook these days. Usually I stick to those frozen dinners, but when you kids come around it keeps me in practice.”

“How do you do it?” John said without preamble, remembering something Jessica had said. “How do you live, knowing what’s in the basement?” He didn’t mean to sound hostile, and hoped he didn’t, but he wasn’t really sure how he sounded at the moment. “I mean, we never really talked about it, about where to put her…them… You sort of took over and…”

Clay didn’t look offended—though he did look to the floor for a brief moment. “I did the only thing that could be done. Just like with the others. As long as we aren’t sure… As long as we aren’t sure, they have to be kept safe, right?” He smiled a bit. “And I don’t think you or Jessica have the means for new roommates at the moment.”

“You’re always here for us. All of us. Thanks,” he said quietly, like he was a child all over again.

“Of course, of course. You know you’re always welcome here. Always welcome to call, for anything.”

“Right. It’s getting late—I think I should go now. Could you—could you bring my jacket?”

Clay nodded, ducking back into the kitchen and returning a few moments later with his jacket and a fogged-up plastic container of still-warm leftovers that would last him through the whole of tomorrow. “Get some sleep, alright, John?” he said as he handed them over.

He’d try. Though he didn’t feel sleepy when he got into his car—probably for the best—or even when he pulled away from the curb and drove off into the night. More than that, he felt as if he’d opened his eyes for the first time in a while; that he was slowly waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at [takecake](https://takecake.tumblr.com)


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